When I was a kid, at every family gathering, at some point the men would grab their drinks and cigars and peel off from the crowd, divide themselves into teams and enact an ancient Italian ritual: the throwing of the bocce.

On Monday morning, with no great fanfare or pageantry, I paid my 2010 taxes. It wasnt big deal, just a quick side trip to the accountants office on my way to work. My wife met me there and we looked over our return, shrugged and then signed off on our single largest annual expenditure.

Up close, the ruby slippers are not so dazzling. Theyre kind of dowdy, actually big and wide as bedroom slippers, with a low, clunky heel and a dull, dirty finish. They dont look like theyd pass for fashionable at an Atlantic City slot machine, let alone magically bring Dorothy back to Kansas with a triple-click of the heels.

Will he buy me a corsage? Will we take a limo? Will we go to dinner? Will we dance together all night?

Winter makes its last stand here in the Triad this week, and the kittens venture forth from my daughters bedroom. The wee furries are a good reminder that in spring, we are reborn the world is new again, filled with wonders and curiosities we cant even begin to imagine.

Henry and Blaze have been with us a long time more than 13 years, predating this house, our children, our marriage and our move to Greensboro from New Orleans but its not difficult to remember when they were busy little fuzzballs sliding across our hardwood floors and tearing up the drapes.

By 9:40 p.m. the last ticket had been fired, cooked and sent out a couple plates of mahi, one blackened Vera Cruz style and the other glazed with sweet and smoky hoisin, both plated with mashed potatoes and prefaced by dinner salads with bleu cheese dressing.

A big break in the first half comes during the third jam, when Greensboro Rollergirl General Sew, in her homemade red jersey, fishnets and the hottest of hot pants, takes advantage of a power jam opportunity and racks up 15 points, putting the Rollergirls ahead of the URGE, of Greensville, SC, making the score 20-4 in favor of the hometown team.

Have you had a shave yet today? asks my friend Aidan Gill, the Irish barber. I run my hand across one stubbly cheek and the matter is settled.

Its warm in Glenwood, bright enough for Al Brilliant to read by daylight at the narrow desk in his bookshop, the Glenwood Community Bookshop, while the rest of the neighborhoods commercial district is still getting to its feet.

Where do you bring your 10-year-old son to tell him about sex for the first time? Sports bars were out because of the Carolina-Duke game and the attendant crowds of drunken, shouting faithful. Maybe we could go get a couple steaks but frankly, his report card, issued earlier this week, was less than thrilling so I dont want to reward him too much.

I just cant believe it. Im sitting here in luxurious comfort and security in a clean, well-lighted space. From my magnificent throne I can see the freshly painted cinderblock walls, bereft of scars and graffiti, can hear faint traces of piano and a womans voice singing, the thump of the bass and drums echoing.

How exciting it is to watch a revolution from afar, as I have been doing since 30-year incumbent Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak faced revolt from his own people last week.

Its been more than three weeks since I quit smoking again and save for a few regrettable lapses in discipline, its going fairly well.

Every stage of parenting comes with its own travails, from the extreme lack of sleep new parents experience to the physical demands of toddlers to the awkwardness of the teenage sex talk.

Something terrible has happened. Just terrible. A threshold has been crossed from which there is no turning back. And I fear nothing will ever be the same.

I wanted to write something beautiful for this first column of the year, something beautiful and brilliant that takes the entire decade and neatly wraps it up with wit and style, gathering the threads of our experiences both shared and personal and weaving them into a brilliant tapestry.

Scene: On Christmas Day, up in New Jersey, my Uncle Tom, a sort-of retired school superintendent, indulges in his love/fear of adverse weather by clicking away from the holiday sporting events and losing himself in the Weather Channel's breathless revue of storm porn.

I turned 40 this year, and it wasnt nearly as bad as I thought. I didnt automatically start hiking my pants up past my navel or screaming at kids in my yard. My body didnt immediately break down like some appliance that just hit its warranty expiration date. No new wrinkles. No new worries. No totally unrecognizable face in the mirror in the morning.

You know how I feel about cold weather? I dont like it. I dont like it at all. So Im predisposed to grumpiness lately, what with the mornings spent shivering over coffee while trying to get the kids on the school bus, days trapped in an office cold enough to store meat in and occasional forays into the bitter outdoors for resentful acts of cigarette smoking.